feet. “It was nice meeting you,” he says.
“You too.” I find myself meaning it.
“Probably I’ll see you around. If Alex ever pulls his head out of his butt, maybe we’ll be chasing the same storm one of these days.”
“Totally.” I want to say more, but my vocabulary has disappeared.
Max gives me a wave and heads back to the Motel 6. While the Torbros collect their laptops and power cords, I stack the dishes on the table and wipe it down. I’m glad my suitcase is already zipped up and ready to go.
If we can locate Victor, my guess is we’ll be out chasing ten minutes from now.
6
S omewhere north of Wichita, we pull off Highway 96 and into a two-pump gas station. I jump out of the van, and dust billows at my feet.
The bright afternoon sun glints off a rusted Texaco sign. Across the street is another gas station—but it’s boarded up. Next to that is a small brick church with a sign that reads GIVE THE LORD YOUR TROUBLES. HE CAN TAKE THEM!
Mason hops out of the van behind me. “Another beautiful day in beautiful Kansas!” he says, spreading his arms wide. His freckled skin is borderline reflective in the afternoon light. “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadooow!” he sings. He motions to the flat road like it’s a rolling wheat field.
“Are you seriously going to sing
Oklahoma!
in every state?” Hallie asks, coming around from the other side of the van.
“Why not?” Mason asks. “It’s a classic. Say you throw
Oklahoma!
and
Cats
into a twister. Only one can survive. I pick
Oklahoma!
every time.”
“Because
Cats
sucks,” Hallie says. “Say you throw
Oklahoma!
and
Lord of the Rings
into a twister. Only one can survive. Which is it?”
“Dur,” says Mason. “
Lord of the Rings
. But that’s an awful setup for the vortex game. The decisions are supposed to get increasingly difficult, not easier.”
“But
some
people might pick
Oklahoma!
over
Lord of the Rings,
” I say.
“Some insane people,” Mason replies. “Worst round of the vortex game ever.” He wipes his forehead—already turning pink in the sun—and heads toward the gas station convenience store. “I need a beef stick.”
“Ah, the vortex game,” Hallie says. “So ridiculous, only a chaser would love it.” On the other side of the van, Ethan’s using an ancient gas pump to fill the tank. The numbers are the old-fashioned kind, not digital, so you can actually hear a click as the price goes up and up.
“I’m not even sure I
understand
the vortex game,” I confess. “What’s the deal again?”
“The way your brother explained it to me when I started playing last season is that you’re supposed to picture a twister out on the plains. And say you know it’s going to suck up two things. Your cat or your homework, maybe. Only one is going to survive the encounter. Which do you pick?”
“The cat,” I answer, even though my mom and I don’t have any pets.
“Okay,” Hallie nods. “Now put the cat up against something else. Something you’d have a harder time letting go of. The cat and the six-hundred-dollar emerald earrings you got from a secret admirer, maybe.”
“I don’t have a secret admirer,” I say, thinking that Hallie—with her Bambi-brown eyes and her long legs—must have a thousand of them.
“Well, whatever the choices are, I guess you’re supposed to learn something about yourself with every decision you make,” Hallie says. “Ideally, at the end of the game, because you’ve discovered so much about yourself, you’ll be able to know which decision to make when you put two huge showstoppers up against each other. It’s like chaser theology or something. Chaser dogma.”
I’m about to ask Hallie which she’d pick if Victor or Alex Atkins were sucked up into a tornado, when my cell phone erupts with my mom’s ring. “Sorry,” I apologize, pulling it out. “I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
Desperate for a place where I can talk privately, I duck
“You too.” I find myself meaning it.
“Probably I’ll see you around. If Alex ever pulls his head out of his butt, maybe we’ll be chasing the same storm one of these days.”
“Totally.” I want to say more, but my vocabulary has disappeared.
Max gives me a wave and heads back to the Motel 6. While the Torbros collect their laptops and power cords, I stack the dishes on the table and wipe it down. I’m glad my suitcase is already zipped up and ready to go.
If we can locate Victor, my guess is we’ll be out chasing ten minutes from now.
6
S omewhere north of Wichita, we pull off Highway 96 and into a two-pump gas station. I jump out of the van, and dust billows at my feet.
The bright afternoon sun glints off a rusted Texaco sign. Across the street is another gas station—but it’s boarded up. Next to that is a small brick church with a sign that reads GIVE THE LORD YOUR TROUBLES. HE CAN TAKE THEM!
Mason hops out of the van behind me. “Another beautiful day in beautiful Kansas!” he says, spreading his arms wide. His freckled skin is borderline reflective in the afternoon light. “There’s a bright golden haze on the meadooow!” he sings. He motions to the flat road like it’s a rolling wheat field.
“Are you seriously going to sing
Oklahoma!
in every state?” Hallie asks, coming around from the other side of the van.
“Why not?” Mason asks. “It’s a classic. Say you throw
Oklahoma!
and
Cats
into a twister. Only one can survive. I pick
Oklahoma!
every time.”
“Because
Cats
sucks,” Hallie says. “Say you throw
Oklahoma!
and
Lord of the Rings
into a twister. Only one can survive. Which is it?”
“Dur,” says Mason. “
Lord of the Rings
. But that’s an awful setup for the vortex game. The decisions are supposed to get increasingly difficult, not easier.”
“But
some
people might pick
Oklahoma!
over
Lord of the Rings,
” I say.
“Some insane people,” Mason replies. “Worst round of the vortex game ever.” He wipes his forehead—already turning pink in the sun—and heads toward the gas station convenience store. “I need a beef stick.”
“Ah, the vortex game,” Hallie says. “So ridiculous, only a chaser would love it.” On the other side of the van, Ethan’s using an ancient gas pump to fill the tank. The numbers are the old-fashioned kind, not digital, so you can actually hear a click as the price goes up and up.
“I’m not even sure I
understand
the vortex game,” I confess. “What’s the deal again?”
“The way your brother explained it to me when I started playing last season is that you’re supposed to picture a twister out on the plains. And say you know it’s going to suck up two things. Your cat or your homework, maybe. Only one is going to survive the encounter. Which do you pick?”
“The cat,” I answer, even though my mom and I don’t have any pets.
“Okay,” Hallie nods. “Now put the cat up against something else. Something you’d have a harder time letting go of. The cat and the six-hundred-dollar emerald earrings you got from a secret admirer, maybe.”
“I don’t have a secret admirer,” I say, thinking that Hallie—with her Bambi-brown eyes and her long legs—must have a thousand of them.
“Well, whatever the choices are, I guess you’re supposed to learn something about yourself with every decision you make,” Hallie says. “Ideally, at the end of the game, because you’ve discovered so much about yourself, you’ll be able to know which decision to make when you put two huge showstoppers up against each other. It’s like chaser theology or something. Chaser dogma.”
I’m about to ask Hallie which she’d pick if Victor or Alex Atkins were sucked up into a tornado, when my cell phone erupts with my mom’s ring. “Sorry,” I apologize, pulling it out. “I have to take this.”
“No problem.”
Desperate for a place where I can talk privately, I duck
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